With Love, Down We Go
by importance of leather gloves
Summary: They know they'll die from the same poison. Royai.
1. Bliss

_**Bliss**_ - _a bliss of another kind_ – by _Tori Amos_

* * *

She's light-headed. A billion rays of light play their silly little game on the ceiling. She lies there, a silent witness to their trickery.

The morning. That dreaded thing is about to come. She can feel the warm body next to her stir in his sleep. It's no wonder he's not awake and she's left to her worries. This is not the first nor will it be the last- she has accepted it long ago. The warm body reminds her of the reality. Of their inability. Reminds her both of the consequences and the rewards. And the fact that they both choose to ignore the consequences, every single time. Every single night, till morning. Till those treacherous rays of light start to play their game of mockery on her ceiling. She cannot even hate those reminders. Not when he's still next to her.

Suddenly, he turns to her, eyes opening sleepily.

"Still have a few hours, huh?"

"Yeah," she answers, unable to fight a smile.

It's the perfect bliss. And it's not over yet.


	2. Hold

_You ain't got a hold on me_ _**by**_ **AC/DC**

* * *

It is his new mantra, his new philosophy, a new way out.

He keeps saying it to himself over and over again, through night and day, over a glass of wine as he smiles to a beautiful woman, when he recalls an inappropriate dream that consists of his first lieutenant, when that said blonde in her ridiculously unfeminine uniform nods politely to him, turning to leave the office at the end of the day.

_You don't have a hold on me _passes his mind when she informs him about the latest developments, _You don't have a hold on me_ is all he can think about when she hands him a new stack of paper he has to read and sign. He wants to hold exactly where she has held them, to feel the warmth she has transferred.

But he does not peel the gloves off his hands and instead, he reminds himself his mantra again.

Without his gloves he's nothing. Without his gloves, he's vulnerable.

_Without his gloves, he can feel her._

He wants to have the guts to tell it to her face, maybe then her hopeful eyes will not find his even for a mere moment and leave him shaken much to his distaste, or maybe, then, she will not put her hand on his shoulder unceremoniously, warm with familiarity, before telling him to go home and rest with a soft, tender voice when the clouds invade the sky.

_Then, _maybe, after it all stops and the wall is high between them, he will not have to say it again and again.

When the shared warmth is gone, there will be no danger, no softness.

There will be nothing at stake if he fails to accomplish his dreams.

Then, there will be only an meaningless aim in his mind, he'll fight without true ambition- it won't be a certain death if he fails to reach out and grab his future. In the end, his peace of mind is dependant on how little of a hold she has on him.

He has _some_ clue about the amount, since he knows that every passing day, he is going positively _insane. _When this madness invades his mind, all he knows is he has to stop it.

So, he reminds himself of the magic words again- the one that says _she has absolutely no hold on him_. No, _no hold on him there has ever been._

* * *

Then one day he forgets to do so.

His mantra choked in his throat when her hands quickly unbutton his clothes, feverish, and his lips find hers in a moment of madness, the words of that one specific sentence are crumbled into nothingness when she, more willing than he could ever dare to imagine his prim and proper lieutenant being, pulls him to her body, soft, warm, yielding; and then in a frenzy, he is inside of her, moving with a need he has been denying, to her, to both of them, and their limbs tangled and breaths mingled together in a haze of lust.

When it ends, with both of them in bliss, he is so sure he is forgetting something _so crucial_.

_Something_ about _the hold._

He might need a new mantra from now on.


	3. Prisoner

_**Prisoner**_ - **Barbra Streisand**

* * *

They walk to the place where the city fades away. They walk on the stone roads until no one is around, until they recognize their surroundings no more.

Neither says anything. It would taint everything.

They don't touch because they know then they wouldn't be able to go back.

* * *

Office walls close in on them, slowly. Each day it appears smaller. They wonder when they'll have crawl inside.

They always leave for a duty when the time comes. Something of an excuse. A good one at that, no one interrogates a colonel and his right hand about the time they spend after a criminal.

They walk out of the city, first the woods, then the bald, deserted land.

* * *

They're not happy. They're not sad, either. Not anymore. Their routine is solid and as long as they know they'll walk to nowhere at the end of the day, they're content.

There's no place for greed in their lives.

They swallow the key to each others' cells happily.


	4. Down With Love

_**AN:**_ This is awfully cheesy for my violent tastes but the scene practically begged me to do it so here it is. I feel awkward. Obviously sweet and tender romance is foreign to me.

* * *

_**Down With Love** - Barbra Streisand_

* * *

There is Envy's weak voice resonating in the underground tunnel, there is two other presence, one belonging to an enemy, one to an ally; but Roy does not really grasp it. There is his best friend's vision in his mind, fuel of his vengeful dreams and now the culprit is right in front of him. Then there is Riza, standing between him and the utter satisfaction of knowing he has avenged his best friend. She is in the way. In the way of revenge. How could she- _how dare she-_

He should -What-_What is he doing-_

Cold metal of the gun at his head is turning his vision back to normal and Envy's voice is starting to reach his ears. For a second he's shocked to realize that the moment they, he and she would be against each other has come. He must have wandered from the path he has swore to follow. His face softens. _Lieutenant. _ Then he grasps Envy's words.

_You are enemies, fight, kill, follow your instincts!_

There is weariness in the air, he doesn't know if it's him or all of them. Roy can't even find the will to kill that little murderer. He's remembered he has committed enough crimes, already.

_Instincts._ Envy speaks so casually of them- so _sure_ that they dictate destruction. _His_ instincts tell him Riza would not _-could not-_ shoot him, even for _his _sake. He feels it in the way the gun barely touches his skin, the way it falters, it hesitates. The way Riza trembles.

Suddenly, guilt consumes him.

_Instincts._

She would not be able to kill him even if her _instincts _have told her so.

He could not destroy the remnants of the formula on her back completely, even if her wish, even if his logic commanded him so.

_Instincts. _

Envy tells them to lend an ear to their instincts and kill, kill, _kill, _but all Roy's instincts tell him to do is to embrace Riza and never let go.


	5. Crucify

_Crucify_ – **Tori Amos**

* * *

_I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets  
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets_

* * *

There are better alternatives.

There are many ways, most of them less tiring, less hurting, less draining. Other places. Other people that won't drag them to an endless state of sorrow.

But they never seem to be content without being profoundly sad.

The war spreads, the grim reaper stands above their heads, their internal battle surpasses the bloodshed outside.

* * *

It ends, the war, and with it, their routine, the shared sadness changes its form. Everything becomes very different in a way they have never foreseen.

He chooses another ways - the ones that are less draining - he chooses _many_. She ignores the truth until it – he – becomes notorious. Then, she becomes cold with the realization of this true despair.

It hadn't been _that_ before. It is _it_ now. She prefers the grim reaper.

She finds herself pathetic. She misses the days she was perfectly sad instead of quasi-betrayed.

* * *

She's reluctant in this infidelity- fights herself hard, tells herself it's not cheating if you're not in a relationship and the not-lover is already sleeping with half of Amestris – but she's nothing if not determined. She approaches the matter like a soldier at first- clumsy, too stern, out of place. Plain wrong. It's almost humiliating.

But it doesn't matter after everything. Losing a bit of her dignity is better than losing her mind.

* * *

In no time, she discovers losing consciousness helps a lot, she's giddy now in someone else's arms. She wonders if he's around – this is his favourite bar and she won't act like it's a coincidence – and what he'd think of her now.

It's like amnesia and it's disturbing that she finds it comforting. It's terrifying how different she is with the bitter taste of whiskey and a stranger's kiss, wanting a loss of control when in the past, all she could think about was maintaining it. She hasn't done too many things she's not proud of back then. She doesn't seem to do much else now.

* * *

He looks sleep deprived too, but it doesn't please her. It's just another reminder of his nocturnal activities. She wonders with whom he was last night, her tired mind fails to stop herself from going _there._

In time, that changes too.

She's tired of amnesia and regret, he's sick of sleep deprivation and cheap perfume lingering on his uniform. They find their old routine but the old is in no way the same.

But they find out, when they reminiscence the old comfort, the outcome stays the same. They have no place to go to, no harbour to seek shelter. They're the only constants in each others' lives and reminders of regrets.

In the end, they share the same fate that doesn't taste well, but at least they know they'll die from the same poison.

* * *

.end.


End file.
